


Quiet

by Orianne (morganya)



Category: Whose Line Is It Anyway? RPF
Genre: F/F
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2003-04-07
Updated: 2003-04-07
Packaged: 2017-10-25 17:30:59
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,003
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/272922
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/morganya/pseuds/Orianne
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Laura has some explaining to do.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Quiet

Their names sound similar. Laura sounds them out in her head sometimes, drawing out the syllables until they're nothing but meaningless babble, the sounds her daughter used to make when she was eighteen months old. Lor-ah. Lyn-dah. Lyn-dah. Lor-ah. Now that she thinks of it, they're less babble than scat syllables, a handful of musical notes.

Music's simple. Fit the right notes together, make a chord. Fit the right chords together with the right melody, make a country song. Make an opera song. A rap song. It's like putting the pieces of a jigsaw together. Something small and simple fitting into a larger whole.

LT doesn't understand this. She works instinctively. Try to talk to her about the way things fit together and she'll cock her head, squinch up her nose and suggest going to get a beer. If Laura persisted, LT would talk about jazz, about feeling the music and losing yourself in it. To her, music is an ocean. You either swim or drown.

There's only one time Laura really understood what LT meant. It was a simple disco song, Village People style. She programmed in the right notes, Something went wrong, hit the wrong key, and suddenly the music lurched to life, Frankenstein's monster, ninety-six revolutions per minute. She watched the performers trying to keep up, waving their arms frantically, and it all seemed to be going faster and faster and she didn't know how to stop it, sound waves breaking over her head.

When it was over, she said, laughing, that she didn't know how to explain it. LT leaned her hands on her guitar, her crooked half-smile the only indication of amusement. For LT, that was the equivalent of a belly laugh.

Laura had laughed, but she also made sure to figure out how to ensure it wouldn't happen again.

She wonders if it has something to do with being a mom, with wanting to make everything safe and protected. If she were footloose and fancy-free, the thought of chaos might be more appealing. She might be willing to experience it.

She dismisses the thought as soon as it crosses her mind. She can't picture herself as a rebel. Faced with a choice, she will always take the safest one, the one that's easy to understand and explain.

What she can't explain is why sometimes she lies in bed and thinks about LT's hands. She's got muscular hands, with long, skinny fingers. When she jams, no longer held back by pre-ordained styles, she can stroke the strings of her guitar and make them sing.

And always, somehow when she thinks about LT's hands, the image is replaced by her face, the sharp angles of her cheekbones and jaw. Her eyes are strange: now dark, now light, the irises unusually large, swallowing all color. The ocean at midnight. LT's mouth is the only thing that suggests softness, with her pale, cushiony lower lip.

Laura always tries to stop thinking before it gets out of control. Sometimes she can, sometimes she can't.

She's never said anything about it. LT's a co-worker, and Laura likes to keep things easy and light with her co-workers, never letting them get too close. More importantly, putting the thoughts into words is too hard. Laura thinks in images and symbols. Words are messy, their meanings too easily obscured. There's too much room for misunderstanding.

*****

Laura sits at the piano in the studio, trying out arpeggios, harmonic intervals. Practice makes perfect.

She shapes the notes into chords and melody. She tries to keep the illusion of practicing long after she's stopped, and actually started playing.

When she plays naturally, using the music for herself, it sounds sweeter, jangly, poppy. A stone skimming along the surface of water.

It takes her a minute to realize that LT has arrived, is in the studio, watching her.

Laura stops playing. She wonders if she should murmur an apology, that she didn't mean to waste time, as though LT were an executive. There's no one else in the studio; the performers and crew aren't due for twenty minutes.

LT half-smiles. She comes to the side of the stage, petting one of the guitars. Her shirt is brilliant blue, soft and silky. A heavy silver necklace curls around her throat.

She makes a 'move over' gesture to Laura. When Laura complies, LT sits down on the piano bench with an expectant expression. She smells of spice.

Laura says nothing, sizing her up. LT puts a finger on the Baldwin's keys. She quirks an eyebrow, smiling like a bad girl caught trespassing, direct and unashamed.

Laura wonders if this is a test. Finally she takes the easy way and takes LT's hand, guiding her through Chopsticks.

She feels the bumps of LT's knuckles, the warm skin of her hand. Her fingertips will have hardened calluses from her guitar. Strong hands. She could have been a pioneer woman.

They come to the end. Laura starts to draw away. LT doesn't get up, and she keeps smiling. She reaches out her hand and runs her thumb down the underside of Laura's arm, thick, roughened fingertips stroking the skin with impossible delicacy. Laura trembles despite her best efforts. Her throat is dry. She wants to speak, to tell LT about her hands, her mouth, her eyes. She wants to talk to LT about music, about the way she makes the guitar sing. She wants to tell her that she dreams of her. She doesn't. She can't.

Laura starts to look away. Blood rushes to her face. LT puts an arm around her shoulder. When Laura looks back, she manages to look directly into LT's strange, neither-dark-nor-light eyes, and, just for a minute, she feels as though she's drowning again, but there is no fear. She might as well be in the ocean, calm water surrounding her, safe and protected under the waves.

LT draws back. Laura smiles.

Just like her, LT understands that the real beauty isn't in the actual sounds. It's in the quiet.


End file.
